


Never Had a Backstreet Guy

by WaitingForMy



Category: Newsies - All Media Types, Newsies!: the Musical - Fierstein/Menken
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Corndaddy, Finch is Mexican, Jojo is Puerto Rican, Kenny is Darcy's little brother, Loafers, M/M, Mush and Bill are the same person, Plays on all the Livesies double casting, Second-Hand Embarrassment, Sniper is a clownfucker, The siblings that write Newsies trash together stay together, This is an ongoing RP, chaotic - Freeform, non-binary jojo
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-23
Updated: 2021-02-10
Packaged: 2021-03-14 21:35:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 12,565
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28927413
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WaitingForMy/pseuds/WaitingForMy
Summary: https://youtu.be/zqsCnNTauVc
Relationships: A bunch of rarepairs and Javid, Crutchie & Finch (Newsies), David Jacobs/Jack Kelly, Finch (Newsies)/Mush Meyers, Racetrack Higgins/Jojo (Newsies), Romantic Munch Platonic Crunch
Comments: 3
Kudos: 16





	1. Introduction to the Ovipositor

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome to...this.
> 
> Let's get this straight right off the bat; this is a fanfiction about adults, by adults, for adults. I'm not your dad, I'm not gonna turn you in to the AO3 police if you're under 18, but like...be a pal and don't make it weird. 
> 
> Anyway, welcome! If you're new here, I'm Andy, and I wrote this via roleplay with my sibling, B. I play Finch, they play Bill/Mush, who are in fact the same person here. We've been working on this for a little while now, and we're super excited to finally share it with y'all. Enjoy the chaos.

“Hey, Snipes!” Finch called, frowning at the box of items he was supposed to stock and price. New merchandise was always the night shift’s job, since the store was less busy. Stocking and pricing weren’t difficult, by any means; all you had to do was put the stuff on the shelf and make a little sign with the name and price to hang in front of it. Unfortunately, Pulitzer’s manufactured many of their own products, and the factory sometimes forgot to label them, which left it up to the night shift to figure out how to describe them.

Sniper poked her head into the back room. “What?”

Finch held up one of the items in its clear plastic packaging. “What should I call this?”

Sniper made a face. “Dragon...Dick...Deluxe?”

“ _Cogelo_.” Finch threw the Dragon Dick Deluxe back into the box and headed over to the computer to make the label.

Sniper came to lean in the doorway, crossing her arms absently. “We get anything fun, or just Dragon Dicks?”

“I, uh...think the Dragon Dicks vibrate?”

She pouted. “That’s not _fun_ ; that’s normal.”

“They have the little tube you can shoot synthetic cum through, too,” he added. “Or real cum, I guess. Depends on how friendly you are with the men in your life.”

“Oh, okay. That’s interesting, I guess. I mean, it’s no silicone egg-laying, alien dick, but it’s something.”

“I still want to get those,” Finch grumbled, typing ‘Dragon Dick Deluxe’ into the computer.

“We could put in another customer request form,” Sniper suggested. “It’s been long enough since the last that it’ll seem legit.”

“We need to get Romeo and Blink in on it, though. No one’s gonna believe all the ovipositor fetishists are coming in at one in the morning.”

“When _else_ would they come in?”

“Man, imagine having ovipositor wars,” Finch said. “Like, I can’t say I want one up my ass, but I sure as shit wanna fire one at Jack, just to see what he does.”

Sniper laughed. “Get him to write a request form. ‘I wanna shoot my friend with an alien dick egg’ is definitely a unique angle.”

Just then, the little buzzer that announced the shop’s door opening went off, and Finch rushed to the door to stand next to Sniper. “Who is it?”

The customer was a guy about their age, maybe a year or so younger, looking _wildly_ uncomfortable as he stood just a few steps inside the door, though Finch wasn’t sure if the discomfort was from his surroundings or because he was considerably wet—and not ovipositor-ready sort of wet, but like, just got caught in the rain without an umbrella sort of wet.

Finch leaned over towards Sniper and whispered out of the side of his mouth. “What do you think?”

“Look at the shoes,” she hissed back. “It’s always in the shoes.”

“I dunno, man. What are those? Loafers?”

“Fancy boy,” she said, nodding sagely.

Finch nodded as well. “You’re right; straight men don’t dress that nice. I’m goin’ in.” He clapped Sniper on the shoulder on his way past and headed out onto the floor.

The customer had made his way down one of the aisles, looking for all the world like a lost baby deer looking for its mother. Finch sidled up to the end of the aisle and, in his best imitation of Riff Raff from The Rocky Horror Picture Show, said, “You’re wet.”

The ‘fancy boy’ looked up at him in surprise. “Oh, uh, yeah. It’s raining out.” He pointed towards the windows at the front of the store. He was shorter up close than Finch had noticed from far away, and he had incredible, ice blue eyes. Cute guy.

Finch smiled. “Can I help you?”

“Yeah.” He shook his head, chuckling a little. “This is so stupid. My car sorta died, like the battery shorted out or something, I dunno. And my phone is dead, too, so I can’t call anyone. Do you have a charger I could use? Or maybe I could use your phone?”

Finch laughed. Rocky Horror, indeed. “And you ended up in a twenty-four-hour sex shop. Tough luck, man. Yeah, you can use the phone. I won’t even make you do the Time Warp or anything.” He gestured for the fancy boy to follow him up to the counter.

“You guys are the only place open,” he explained sheepishly.

“We usually are, this time of night. Morning,” Finch quickly corrected himself. He stepped behind the counter and offered Fancy Boy the store phone.

He accepted it, “Thank you,” and stared at it for a second, not hitting any numbers.

Finch raised an eyebrow. “You good?”

“Yeah, I just don’t have any phone numbers memorized, other than my parents’. It’s fine, I’ll call them, it’s fine.” He shook his head a little and dialed a number before putting the phone to his ear.

Finch leaned against the back wall behind the counter and folded his arms over his chest, getting a good look at Fancy Boy while he nervously tapped his fingers on the glass counter, pointedly ignoring the various toys and accessories in the case beneath. His dark hair was drying a bit, lightening to a chocolatey brown color and curling a little around his forehead. He was dressed nicer than their usual clientele, with dark wash jeans—though maybe they were just wet—and a well-fitted, button up shirt on under a nice bomber jacket with a mandarin collar.

Hm. Cute guy. Very cute guy. Very pretty eyes.

He looked up and noticed Finch staring, and a tiny smile appeared at the corner of his mouth. He glanced away, then back, then away again. Then, he wrinkled his face up in displeasure and muttered, “Figures,” before continuing in a more regular tone. “Hey Dad, it’s Bill. My car broke down, and my phone’s dead. Call this number back?” He hung up and grimaced. “He’s not answering—probably ‘cause it’s a call from an unknown number at one in the morning. Do you mind if I call again?”

“Not at all, Bill.” Finch winked. “What kind of phone do you have? I’ll see if we have a charger.”

Bill’s eyes widened a bit, and he shut his mouth quickly for a brief moment before answering. “Oh, uh, it’s just an iPhone.”

Finch cringed a little. His old phone took a micro-USB, and he was pretty sure Sniper used an Android. “Hey, Snipes!” he called towards the back. “We got an iPhone charger anywhere?”

He heard her laugh, and a moment later, she emerged with a Lightning cable. “Blink always leaves this here.”

Bill accepted it gratefully. “Thank you. Where can I plug it in?”

“Right back here.” Finch gestured behind the counter.

“Thanks,” Bill said again, setting the store phone down on the counter and stepping around to plug his phone in.

Finch hopped up and sat on the counter to give him more space. “So, Bill, how do you feel about ovipositors?”

Sniper snorted loudly and ducked back into the back room.

Bill looked up at Finch, squinching his eyebrows in slight confusion. “Beg pardon?”

“Oh, they’re these toys that deposit jelly eggs into whatever.” Finch kicked his legs absently. “Some folks are really into that. I want to shoot them at my friend. Anyway, we keep tellin’ the boss man to order some, but he won’t do it.” He scoffed. “Like, for a guy who owns an ‘adult toy store’, he’s super conservative and lame.”

Bill just stared at him, mouth opening into a tiny ‘o’ and cheeks flushing slightly as he spoke. “I’ve uh, I’ve never heard of those,” he said.

“They sound great, right?” Finch went on. Flustered was a look Bill wore well, and Finch was never one to be shy with his customers—or, in this case, fancy boys in distress. “Like, who needs Nerf, when you can fire ovipositors at your bros, right?”

“I suppose,” Bill conceded, though it didn’t sound like he supposed at all.

Finch narrowed his eyes slightly. “How old are you?” he asked, suddenly hoping to god the answer wasn’t sixteen or seventeen. For obvious reasons, Finch wasn’t used to interacting with minors at work, but Bill wasn’t a customer. He could very easily have been a high schooler on his way home from a party. And Finch had just gone off on him about ovipositors. Oops.

“I’m twenty-one,” Bill answered. “If you’re asking ‘cause there’s an age requirement to buy an ovipositor, I don’t think I’m really interested in buying right now...”

“No,” Finch laughed. “No, we don’t sell those yet, remember? _But_ , if I can interest you in a Dragon Dick Deluxe—”

“No,” Bill interrupted, blushing again. “No, thank you.”

Finch could hear Sniper laughing in the back room.

“Well, just let me know if you change your mind.” Finch turned to put his feet flat on the counter next to him and lay down.

Bill kept looking at him for a second or two longer, then looked quickly down at his phone—now plugged in and turning back on. He tapped the screen a few times, and then put the phone to his ear. He waited, then groaned. “Come on, Dad, pick up.” He tried again, and it seemed the call connected this time, as he spoke with relief. “Dad, hey. My car broke down. I’m stuck in lower Manhattan. Yeah, I’m at the, uh...” He looked to Finch, who smiled sympathetically.

“Pulitzer’s Pleasure Palace.”

Bill’s eyes widened slightly, and Finch snickered. “Just say you’re by the Aldi and the Dollar General.”

“I’m by the Aldi and the Dollar General,” Bill repeated. “Yeah, okay. Yeah. Text me when you’re close? Okay. Thanks, Dad.” He hung up and exhaled. “Okay, he’s gonna come pick me up.” He hesitated for a second, then asked, “Is it okay if I wait here?”

“Sure.” Finch kicked his legs back over the side of the counter to sit up.

“Thanks,” Bill said again, setting his phone on the counter. “It’ll probably be a little while. He was asleep, so...”

“No problem.” Finch hopped down off the counter. Then, after a brief pause, “You have beautiful eyes.”

Bill looked up at him quickly, said beautiful eyes widening a bit as a small, surprised smile spread across his face. “Oh. Well, thank you.”

Finch winked and started towards the back. “Name’s Finch, if you need me. I’ve gotta shelve some Dragon Dicks.”

He went into the back room and found Sniper at the computer, logging the rest of the new inventory.

“Poor kid,” she chuckled.

“Man, he’s _fine_ ,” Finch said quietly. “Did you see him?”

“Yeah, he’s pretty cute,” she replied, clearly amused.

Finch snickered, “Never thought I’d be into a guy in _loafers_ ,” picked up the box of Dragon Dicks, and flashed her a grin before heading back out into the floor.

Bill was still standing almost exactly where Finch had left him, looking like he was afraid that if he walked around, something might leer off a shelf and bite him.

Finch chuckled to himself as he made his way to an empty shelf. “Can I interest you in something more normal?” he asked Bill. “Condoms? Bacon flavored lube? A soda from the break room?”

“A soda would be great,” Bill laughed.

“‘Ey, Snipes! Can ya bring our guest some soda?”

“Cock or PP?” she called back.

Finch translated, “Coke or Dr. Pepper?”

“Whatever’s fine,” Bill said.

“Whatever!” Finch relayed to Sniper.

“You want something?” she called to him.

“Sure, surprise me!”

“Aight!”

A few seconds later, Sniper emerged from the back room with two cans of Dr. Pepper in hand, one of which she handed to Bill—who thanked her—and the other she tossed towards Finch after a warning of, “Think fast!”

“Fuuuck, Snipes,” Finch groaned, catching it. “Now my PP’s gonna spray everywhere.”

Bill choked on a laugh, and Finch winked at him again.

Bill quickly looked down and opened his soda, as if he was trying to hide or distract from the smile that had very clearly pushed its way onto his face.

Finch couldn’t help a little smile of his own as he turned to start stocking the shelf. “So, Brad and Janet, tell me—how’d you end up stranded with us at one a.m. on a Sunday?”

Bill looked a little confused for a second, but answered anyway. “I was DD for some friends, and I’d just finished taking everyone home.”

“Ah, DD.” Finch nodded. “Good for you.”

Bill snorted, coming around the counter to wander a little closer to where Finch was. “Hardly. I lost rock-paper-scissors.”

Finch chuckled, very aware of Bill’s new proximity. “Ouch.”

Bill shrugged and took a sip of his soda before replying. “Can’t win ‘em all.” There was a moment of quiet as Bill glanced absently around the store, then asked. “So, have you been working here a long time, or...?

“Couple years,” Finch answered. “Not sure if that counts as a ‘long time’ or not.”

“Wow.” Bill nodded in acknowledgement, still looking around. “How does one end up working in a twenty-four-hour sex shop? I mean you don’t _seem_ like a total creep...”

Finch smirked at him. “Good. It’s working.”

Bill laughed brightly. “Oh, I see. So you lure people in with the whole ‘tall and handsome’ bit, and then you launch ovipositors at them. Is that it?”

A stupid grin stretched across Finch’s face. “Tall and handsome, huh?”

Bill blushed and looked down quickly, suddenly fascinated with his own shoes. He shrugged. “Well you know, relatively.”

“Lot a’ people are tall, compared to you,” Finch teased. “Don’t know about handsome.”

Bill looked back at him, smiling again. “I didn’t say relative to _me_.”

“I did.” Finch turned and leaned back against the shelves, _far_ more interested in flirting with Bill than doing his job. “Quite a night for you, huh?”

Bill made a noise of noncommittal agreement. “Not the usual, certainly.”

“I bet you’ll never forget me.”

He smiled at that and teased, “I imagine it’s hard to forget your introduction to the ovipositor.”

“You saying I should use that more often on pretty guys?” Finch shot back.

“No, I wanna be special,” Bill quipped, grinning.

Finch’s eyebrows shot up in surprise that the baby deer had gotten so bold. “Oh, you’re special, alright. Don’t you worry.”

Bill laughed that same, bright laugh again. “Glad to hear it from someone other than my mom.”

“Well, it’s true.” Finch pushed off the shelves to start stocking again. “For example, we don’t get a lot of people in here talking about their moms.”

“ _Obviously_ I didn’t mean it in a weird way.”

“I’m not judging.”

“I imagine ‘not judging’ is part of the job description.”

Finch half-laughed, half-groaned. “You have _no_ idea.”

Bill grinned. “I got time before my dad gets here. Wanna give me a horror story?”

“Sure,” Finch said. “Oh, get this—one night we had this guy come in, soaking wet, asking to use the phone—” Bill burst into laughter, and Finch silently congratulated himself. “Nah, honestly? I think it’s gotta be the furries.” He held a finger out towards Bill, as if he had started speaking and needed to be stopped. “No judgement, of course, just something about those cold, dead, fursuit eyes gets me a little...jittery.”

“...You mean people come into the store wearing the fursuits??”

“Oh yeah, we have a pack of regulars that come in together,” Finch told him. “I mean, like, a literal pack. Of wolves.”

Bill’s eyes widened. “That’s terrifying.”

Finch shrugged. “I mean, good for them for finding some joy, I guess. I just count myself lucky that the age-players have to put their littles to bed before my shift starts.”

“Do you only ever work nights?”

He nodded. “Eight to four.”

“Dang, so I guess you’re pretty well nocturnal then, huh?”

“Pretty much.” He finally finished shelving the Dragon Dicks and turned back to Bill.

Bill took a breath, but was distracted from answering by his phone buzzing on the countertop. He turned away to pick it up and looked at the screen for a moment before tapping in a reply and setting it back down. “My dad said he’ll be here in about twenty more minutes.”

“I guess you’ll want to be back at your car, by then.” Finch tried not to sound disappointed. “How far is it?”

“Only about a block away,” Bill told him.

“Well, I’d offer to drive you, but I drive a bike. We could see if Sniper—?”

“I can just walk; I don’t want to be any more of a bother than I already have been.”

“Oh, you haven’t been a bother _at all_.”

“Well, anyhow,” Bill smiled politely, “thank you for your help, and for letting me hang out while I wait.”

Finch put on his customer service smile. “Of course. Come on back if you change your mind about the Dragon Dick Deluxe.” He gestured to the shelf behind him.

Bill laughed. “Right, sure.”

It got awkwardly quiet, then. Finch didn’t know what else to say. He _was_ disappointed that Bill had to leave, which was stupid, but whatever.

“Anyway, I guess I should...” Bill gestured towards the door.

“Right,” Finch said. “Careful getting back. Don’t wanna ruin your fancy, leather shoes.”

Bill laughed again. “They’re not that fancy.” He turned to get his phone off the counter again, unplugging it this time and putting it in his pocket. “Thanks for the charger.”

“Hey, thank my dumbass buddy Louis. He’s the one that left it.”

“Well, tell him I said thank you,” Bill replied with a smile.

“Will do, Bill,” Finch said with a dorky little salute.

Bill chuckled again and offered a little wave before heading out the door, back into the rainy night. Finch absolutely checked out his ass in those nice, dark wash jeans as he left. With a crooked smile, Finch picked up the now-empty box that once contained Dragon Dicks and took it to the back room to break it down.

“Fancy boy gone?” Sniper asked as he came in.

“Yep.”

“So, ya get his number?”

“... _MIERDA_.”


	2. Forst Date, Worst Date

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Finch has two more encounters with Bill, and a few of Finch’s friends make appearances.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don’t know if anyone’s actually reading this, but if you are, I hope you’ve been vaccinated against secondhand-embarrassment! :D

The next evening, when Finch arrived at work, Race was at the counter, watching Blink ring up a not at all insignificant amount of lube, toys, and other accessories.

“Eyy, Finch!” Race greeted happily.

“Sweet Jesus, are you having a sex party?” Finch laughed.

“Would you come if I had one?” Race reached over the counter to bat at Blink’s shoulder. “Get it? Would he _come?_ ”

“I got it, Race,” Blink sighed.

“Nah,” Race continued, turning his attention back to Finch, “Jojo’s been out of town for the past two weeks with their family, and they got home tonight, so they’re gonna come over and we’re gonna fuuuuuck.”

Finch scoffed. “You’re going to fuck Poor Jojo _ten bottles_ of lube-worth?”

“No,” Race replied, tilting his nose up at Finch. “I’m going to fuck Jojo _five_ bottles of lube-worth, and Jojo is going to fuck _me_ five bottles of lube-worth.”

“Oh, well, that’s perfectly reasonable, then.” Finch rolled his eyes and headed towards the back to clock in.

After another minute or two, Blink came into the back. “I’m gonna head out. Romeo’s still out on the floor helping some tragic virgin try and figure out which dildo isn’t ‘too scary’.”

“Cool,” Finch said. “Sniper’ll be here any minute, so I’m good.”

“Cool cool.” Blink set about getting his stuff and clocking out.

Finch grabbed himself a Cock (Coke) out of the fridge and headed out to station himself behind the counter.

Exactly two minutes after eight, the door to the shop opened, and Finch looked up to see Bill, now distinctly less wet, but still just as fancy. Finch blinked a couple times, as if his eyes might be playing tricks on him. Then, an excessively wide grin spread across his face, and he slammed his hand on the counter. “I knew it! I knew you’d change your mind about the Dragon Dick Deluxe!”

Bill sputtered and burst into laughter. “Wh— No! I came back to see you!”

“Oh really?”

He blushed and dropped his gaze. “To thank you, I mean. We couldn’t get a tow truck for my car last night, ‘cause it was so late, so I had to come back today, anyway. I figured I might as well time it so I could come thank you.”

“You could thank me by giving me your phone number,” Finch suggested, before realizing how that might seem a little manipulative. “I mean, you don’t _have_ to—”

“Hand me your phone,” Bill cut him off, already crossing to the counter, and holding his hand out for Finch’s phone.

Finch grinned, pulled his phone out of his back pocket, and opened it to a new contact before handing it over to Bill, who accepted it and punched in his name and number before handing it back.

“Thanks,” Finch said, still grinning.

“No, shut up, I’m thanking _you_ , remember?” Bill protested, grinning as well.

“Well,” Finch chuckled, “consider me thanked.”

“Tell you what, how about I do you one better? Let me take you to dinner tomorrow? Or, I guess it would be breakfast for you?”

Oh jeez, that really shouldn’t have made Finch as stupidly giddy as it did. “Sure thing, Bill.”

“If you’d rather, it can be your dinner and my breakfast,” Bill offered, suddenly flustered and blushing again.

Finch laughed. “How’s the five p.m. range for you?

Bill half-cringed. “I’ve got class till five-thirty...though I could skip...”

“Six? That gives me two hours before I have to be here.”

“That works.” Bill smiled.

Finch smiled back. “Alright.”

“It’s a date.”

* * *

“Finch for god’s sake, don’t you have anything other than T-shirts and hoodies??” Crutchie demanded, rifling through Finch’s closet.

“I have a button-down, somewhere!” Finch protested, trying to scrub a ketchup stain out of his only un-ripped pair of jeans.

“Is it _clean?_ ” Crutchie asked, clearly expecting a ‘no’.

Finch rolled his eyes. “Seeing as I haven’t worn it in god knows how long, I think so.”

“Ah-ha!” Crutchie pulled the shirt out from the back of the closet victoriously.

“Thank god,” Finch breathed, reaching for it.

Crutchie handed it over. “So you don’t know _anything_ about him? He’s just some pretty boy from the sex shop?”

“Well, I know his name’s Bill, he’s twenty-one, and he’s in school.”

“What’s his last name?” Crutchie asked, stepping across the short distance to sit down on Finch’s bed. “What’s he in school for? How does he like his eggs in the morning? What’s he do for fun? How many boys has he tricked and sold into slavery?”

Finch rolled his eyes. “I don’t _know_ , that’s what the _date_ is for.”

“I’m just trying to keep you from getting kidnapped.” Crutchie held his hands up in surrender.

“What?” Finch frowned in confusion, then laughed. “Dude, he’s, like, your size, and I’m meeting him there. Calm down.”

“Where are you guys going, anyway?” Crutchie asked.

“Union Square Café,” Finch replied, fixing Crutchie with a wide-eyed look to convey just how intimidated he was by the prospect.

Crutchie widened his eyes in return. “Whoa, that’s pretty upscale.”

“Yeah. I told you, this guy showed up in _loafers_.”

“Fancy boy,” Crutchie observed, nodding, then snorted. “Not really your usual type, huh?”

Finch flipped him off. “Excuse you. Just because I am trailer trash doesn’t mean I don’t have taste.”

Crutchie laughed. “I just mean you don’t usually go for the preppy type!”

“The preppy type isn’t usually cute, short guys with the most beautiful, blue eyes I’ve ever seen,” Finch lamented, flopping onto his back on his bed, which made a slightly concerning creaking noise. “And I’ve seen Race.”

Crutchie laughed, jostled by his landing. “You gonna put out?” he asked, teasing.

“Don’t be ridiculous. Of course I am.”

He laughed. “Atta boy.”

“Look,” Finch said, dragging himself back up and beginning the change from sweatpants to jeans, “it’ll probably be nothing. We’ll go on a date, maybe a few, and it’ll be whatever.”

“It’ll still be fun,” Crutchie said. “Fun is good. And who knows? It might be something.”

“It might,” Finch conceded, though he doubted it. He’d never had a particularly serious boyfriend or girlfriend. It’s not that he didn’t want to; he’d just never clicked with anyone that well.

“Well it definitely won’t if you’re all negative and don’t _let_ it,” Crutchie pointed out.

“I’m not negative! It just hasn’t happened with anyone, yet.”

But Crutchie was already off on his usual ‘there’s good in this world if you just open your eyes and see it’ tirade. “You gotta be hopeful! See the good in people, believe in possibilities! It’ll never happen if you always think it won’t.”

“Sure thing, Crutch.” Finch grabbed his phone and wallet. “You need help getting back to yours?”

“Nah, I’m okay,” Crutchie told him, grabbing his crutch from where it leaned against the wall and sliding his arm into the forearm cuff before getting to his feet. “It’s close enough, and today is a pretty good mobility day.”

“Hey, sweet.” Finch headed out into the living area and grabbed his gloves and helmet off the counter. “Tell Jack I said hi.”

“Will do. You have fun!” Crutchie replied, heading for the door. “And I expect all the dirty deets afterwards!”

“You’ll be the first to know.”

* * *

Finch was nervous, walking into Union Square Cafe. It was considerably higher class than his usual stomping grounds, and that made him jittery. He didn’t really like being out of his depth, and the bright, airy, loud cafe—although quite pleasant and inviting—certainly felt out of his depth.

“Hello,” the hostess greeted him, interrupting his staring apprehensively around. “Do you have a reservation?”

“Uh...” Finch answered uselessly, but then, thankfully, he caught sight of a familiarly fancy boy smiling and waving at him from a few tables away.

“I’m with him,” he told the hostess, pointing.

She nodded, and gestured for him to go ahead. He walked over to the table, smiling at Bill and hoping he didn’t look as lost and terrified as Bill had when he stumbled into their store for the first time. “Hey.”

Bill stood up as he approached, beaming. “Hey, Finch.”

Oh, shit, should he go for the hug? Shake hands? On impulse, he went for a hug, and at the same time, Bill went for a handshake, resulting in him sort of half-punching Finch in the stomach.

“Oh, Jesus, I’m sorry!” Bill exclaimed with an awkward laugh, pulling back a step.

Finch coughed a little. “Nah, you’re good. You’re good.” He took a seat before he could do anything else stupid. “I hope you didn’t have to wait too long.”

Bill sat down opposite him. “No, only a few minutes. I like being early, anyway.”

“Well...that’s a good thing to like.” _What!?_ “I mean, it’s better than being late.”

He chuckled awkwardly. “I guess, yeah.”

Yikes.

Finch forced a pleasant smile onto his face. “This is a nice place,” he said.

Bill looked around absently. “Yeah, it’s a pretty good spot. I tried to get us a table on the second floor, but there weren’t any available.”

“Oh...” Finch nodded. “Is the second floor...special?”

Bill laughed. “No, I just think it’s cool? I dunno.”

“Oh.” Finch nodded again.

It was quiet for a minute, then, just as Bill took a breath and opened his mouth to say something, the waitress came over.

“Hi, guys,” she said with a clearly well practiced smile. “My name’s Sammy, I’ll be taking care of you this evening. Can I start you off with some drinks?”

“Yes, could I have an iced tea, please?” Bill requested, and she nodded, turning to Finch next.

“ _Uh_.” He looked frantically down at the menu on the table in front of him, got intimidated, and looked back up. “You know what? I’ll just have a Cock— _Coke_. Please. Thank you.”

Bill pressed his lips together tightly and half snorted, and the waitress just smiled and nodded again. “No problem. You guys go ahead and have a look at the menu, and I’ll be right back with your drinks.”

As soon as she was gone, Finch dropped his head into his hands. “Oh my god.”

Bill burst into laughter. “Wow.”

“I am _so_ sorry.”

“It’s fine,” he snickered.

Finch exhaled, sitting up straight again. “So, Bill...who is Bill?” Because ‘tell me about yourself’ wouldn’t have been awkward enough.

“Well,” Bill chuckled, “right now he’s a dumbass trying to figure out what possessed him to go on a date with a crazy guy from a sex shop.”

Ouch. “Oh.”

Bill flushed and cringed, hard. “Wow, I’m sorry. That sounded _way_ less mean and more funny in my head.”

Finch waved him off. “S’fine.” He began scanning the menu, mostly in an attempt to alleviate the awkwardness. It didn’t work.

“So.” Bill cleared his throat. “I’m a student at Columbia University, double majoring in Business Management and Economics.”

 _Oh, holy shit_. Finch looked up. “Ah, cool. What year are you?”

“I’m a junior.”

“That’s the third one, right?”

Bill laughed. “Yeah, that’s the third one. I take it you’re not in school?”

Finch cringed himself into a smile. “Nah, never did the college thing.” _Or the finishing high school thing_. “Hey, good for you, though.”

“How come?” Bill asked absently, now glancing down at his menu.

Finch shrugged evasively. “Just didn’t work out.”

Bill glanced up at him, just looking at him for a second before humming noncommittally. “Huh.”

“Yeah,” Finch went on. “So now I just...work at the store, hang out with my friends, whatever.”

“Fair enough.” Bill shifted to pull his phone out of his back pocket, and looked at the screen, frowning for a second before unlocking it and tapping out a text. “Sorry,” he said, locking it and setting it facedown on the table next to his napkin.

“Don’t worry about it.”

“So,” he cleared his throat, “what uh, what do you do for fun?”

“I, uh...” See, Finch didn’t really want to tell Bill that he liked to line beer cans up on a bench and shoot them with a slingshot, because it was juvenile and he knew it. He also didn’t really want to tell Bill how much time he spent testing various devices from the store. You know, so he could give the customers better recommendations. For the customers. “I shoot things.”

Bill blinked, surprised, and there was that lost baby deer look again.

“ _Withaslingshot_ ,” Finch clarified quickly, because it may have been juvenile, but it was better than sounding like a serial killer. “And just inanimate things. Cans and stuff. I might shoot one of my buddies with something soft, if they’re being a dick.”

“Oh,” Bill said, sounding distinctly relieved.

“Yeah, I guess I’m kinda lame...” Finch forced a chuckle. “What about you? What do you do for fun?”

“Well, I like boating,” Bill said with a smile.

Finch’s eyebrows shot up. “Oh.” What kind of bourgeoisie— “Boating’s nice.”

Bill looked pleased, seeming to take Finch’s statement as common ground. “Do you like sailing, or motor boating better?”

“Oh. I...I don’t know.” Finch laid a hand on the back of his neck and scratched nervously. “Probably motor boating. I like to go fast.”

“Oh, that’s right, you said you have a motorcycle.” Bill nodded. “I prefer sailing, myself. Keep trying to convince Dad to let me take the boat for a weekend trip on my own, but he won’t budge.”

 _Holy fucking hell, he’s one of those_. “Do you live with your parents?”

Bill shook his head. “No, thank god. I’ve got a little apartment just off campus.”

“Nice.”

“Yeah, it’s definitely better than living at home.” He chuckled. “And, like, I’m still close, so I can help out and whatever—or get rescued from sketchy sex shops when my car breaks down in the middle of the night.”

“Always a bonus.”

“Yeah, well, there was a pretty cute guy in the sketchy sex shop, so I guess it wasn’t all bad,” he teased.

“Sniper’s a girl, actually,” Finch teased back.

Bill laughed. “I don’t mean her, obviously.”

“What—you don’t think Sniper’s cute?”

Their waitress returned before Bill could answer. “Here are your drinks. Are you ready to order, or do you need a few more minutes?”

“Ah, yes.” Bill smiled up at her. “I’ll have the Chicken Milanese, please.”

Shit, Finch hadn’t even really looked at the menu. He glanced down. _Shit_ , everything was really expensive—at least to Finch, who frequently survived on McNuggets. He didn’t even know what half of it was. “And I’ll have the...Rigatoni Alla... _that_ , please.” He pointed to the item on the menu.

The waitress nodded, looking at where he pointed and jotting it down on her notepad. “Alright, I’ll have that out for you shortly,” she said, taking the menus before departing again.

“I have no idea what I just ordered,” Finch mumbled as she walked away. “Rigatoni is pasta, right?”

Bill laughed. “Yeah, it’s pasta.” His phone buzzed on the table, and he picked it up, looking at it and quickly typing an answer to whatever text had come in.

Finch watched in confusion. Wasn’t that rude? I mean, sure, he’d never really cared for conventional etiquette, and he would certainly check his phone if he was out with his friends or something, but wasn’t a first date supposed to be, like, different? Special?

“Sorry,” Bill said, setting his phone down again. “It’s, uh, family stuff.”

“Ah, okay.” That was at least understandable. Finch reached for his beverage. “Is just you and your parents, or do you have—ohfuck.” Aaand he knocked it over.

Actually, ‘knocked over’ doesn’t quite describe it. It was more like he punched it, launching it across the table at Bill as he instinctively gasped, “Oh no, my cock!”

Bill gasped as the Coke spilled over the edge of the table and into his lap, and he stood up sharply.

Finch stood up as well, grabbing his folded napkin and dumping out the silverware wrapped inside. “Here.” He balled it up and threw it to Bill like a baseball.

Bill yelped, surprised, and utterly failed to catch it as it glanced off his chest and flopped uselessly to the floor.

Finch groaned. “Fuck, I’m so sorry.”

“It’s fine,” Bill said, reaching for his own napkin instead.

Finch slumped back into his chair, marveling at how he managed to fuck up this bad. It was going to make a great tale for Crutchie, at least.

Bill did his best to dry himself off, as well as his chair, and the table, and then sat back down.

“So...” Finch said, cringing so hard.

Bill’s phone buzzed yet again, and he stifled a sigh as he picked it up and looked at the screen.

“Jesus Christ...” he muttered, frowning at it, and he typed in a reply before locking it and putting it in his pocket. “I’m so sorry, this is— There’s some shit going on with my family.” He stood up again. “I have to go...”

“Oh.” _Yeah, right_. “Yeah, no, of course.” Finch started to stand up as well.

“I’m so sorry,” Bill said again. “This is so rude of me. I’ll pay up front on my way out, you don’t have to worry about that.”

“Hey, don’t worry about it, I get it,” Finch assured him. _I mean, I_ did _just throw Coke all over you_.

“I’ll catch ya later?” Bill said, at least having the decency to sound sincere, although Finch doubted it.

“Yeah, catch you later.”

“Sorry,” Bill said again, and with an apologetic cringe of a smile, he was gone.

* * *

“You said _what!?_ ” Jack practically screeched.

Finch sighed. “‘Oh no, my cock’, loudly, in Union Square Café.”

Crutchie was gasping for breath, tears streaming down his face. Of course, Finch had gone directly to Crutchie and Jack’s place, after his disaster of a date with Bill.

“Oh my goddddd,” Jack groaned, laughing. “You’re _hopeless!_ ”

“Hey, _I’m_ not the one who couldn’t stay off the damn phone.” Finch finished off his can of beer, then started rolling it between his hands. He would keep it, of course, for shooting. “You guys should have heard him, all ‘daddy won’t let me take the sailboat for a weekend’.”

Crutchie snorted. “You shoulda known; he was wearing loafers.”

“Fucking loafers!” Finch laughed.

“You think you’re gonna see him again?” Crutchie asked.

“What?” Finch snorted. “He literally left before we even got our food.”

“I dunno,” Crutchie shrugged, always willing to see the best in people, “maybe something really was going on.”

“Oh, bullshit,” Jack and Finch laughed at the same time.

“Whaaat? You never know!” Crutchie protested.

“Whatever,” Finch said. “It’ll be a great story to tell at parties.”


	3. Second Date, Wecond Date

If there was one thing Finch had learned from working at Pulitzer’s Pleasure Palace, it was that the American Public School system had failed. It had failed miserably and spectacularly.

“No, it...it’s actually _not_ wet...inside...the anus,” he tried to explain to a very confused, surprisingly not young man.

“But,” the man tried to argue, “when I do it with my wife—”

“Anally?”

“What?”

Finch blinked. “Are you having anal sex with your wife, or...vaginal sex? Because the vagina self-lubricates, and the anus doesn’t, which means, if you want to put this,” he held up the toy the man had selected, “in your anus, you need lube. Probably a lot, seeing as you’ve never done this before.”

“Oh.” The man flushed slightly, and looked around briefly before grabbing a bottle of marshmallow scented lube, seemingly at random. “Will this work?” he asked.

“It’ll work,” Finch confirmed, nodding. “Aaaaare you cool with smelling like s’mores?”

The man frowned a bit, blushing more, and put it back on the shelf. “Is there anything that doesn’t smell ridiculous?”

Finch laughed. “Yeah.” He grabbed a bottle of unscented and handed it over.

“Okay,” the man said. “I’ll take these, then.”

“Alright.” Finch led the man to the counter and began ringing things up, slipping easily back into customer service mode after his impromptu stint as a sex-ed teacher. “How is your evening, so far?”

“It’s fine,” the man answered, clearly super uncomfortable being there.

“Good.” Finch finished the transaction as quickly as possible. “Thanks for stopping by.”

“Sure, thanks,” the man replied, grabbing the bag and darting out the door.

Just then, almost as soon as the door shut behind him, Finch’s phone buzzed. After a quick glance to make sure there were no other customers in the store, he pulled it out of his pocket.

The screen was showing a notification banner: a text from Bill Hearst.

“ _Hey, Finch, I’m_ —”

“What the fuck?” Finch laughed out loud, opening his messages.

“ _Hey Finch, I’m so sorry. Tonight was awful, and it’s totally my fault._

 _I was super rude, I shouldn’t have run out with no explanation like that. Things are super crazy with my family right now, and I really did have to go, I wasn’t trying to ditch you or anything_.”

Huh. Would you look at that. “ _Don’t worry about it, dude,_ ” Finch replied, expecting that to be that.

“ _No really, you don’t have to be nice, I was a duck_.” Another text pinged in immediately. “ _*Dick, obviously, oh my god_.”

Finch snorted. “ _Yeah, I guess you were kind of a duck :p_ ”

“ _For real though, I totally sucked, and I’m sorry_.”

Bill’s typing bubble popped up for a second, then went away, then popped up again, then went away again, then one more time, and then another text came through. “ _I’d like to take you out again, as an apology, if you haven’t already written me off as literally the worst_.”

Finch had already written him off as literally the worst, but then he heard Crutchie’s voice in his head: ‘ _See the good in people! Believe in the possibilities!_ ’

“ _I’m down_.”

For a minute, there was no reply, and Finch thought Bill might’ve not expected a ‘yes’ and only said it to be polite, but if that was the case, why text at all?

(In reality, Bill hadn’t expected a ‘yes’ and got so excited he accidentally threw his phone across the room, but Finch didn’t know that)

Just as Finch went to slip his phone back in his pocket, deciding to write it up as confusingly shitty and move on, a reply came in after all.

“ _Fantastic! Maybe something more low key this time?_ ”

This brought a relieved smile to Finch’s face. “ _Sounds good. When are you free?_ ”

“ _How about when you get off work?_ ”

“ _I get off work at 4am, lol_ ”

“ _I can make that work, if that works for you?_ ”

“ _4am???_ ”

* * *

Even at four o’clock on an unseasonably warm, October morning, chugging a coffee like his life depended on it, Bill still looked more put-together than Finch could ever hope to achieve. He was wearing those dumb loafers again, jeans, and a nice, thick, tan sweater.

“I’d suggest we go get coffee somewhere,” he said, taking another drink from his travel mug, “but I don’t think anywhere is open.”

“Probably not,” Finch agreed. And there was the problem with going on dates at four in the morning. He shrugged. “It’s a nice night; wanna take a walk?”

Bill nodded. “Sounds good to me.”

Now, Finch had gone on many early morning walks, since he started working the night shift, and he had a usual route that he knew was pretty safe, so he led the way. The city was beautiful in the dark. In the daylight, it was all gray and brown and concrete, but the dark, it lit up with every color in the rainbow. You could really see the beauty of New York in the dark, if you just knew where and how to look.

“So,” Finch began, swiping his fingers through his hair, “how’s your family? Everything okay?”

“Yeah,” Bill said, falling into step beside him. “Well, no, but not any worse than usual.”

Finch frowned. What kind of an answer was that? Bill saw the confusion on his face and grimaced. “Sorry. My mom is in the hospital, and Dad had to go see her last night, so he needed me to watch my little sister.”

“Oh, shit, I’m—” Well, now Finch felt like a total dick. “I’m sorry.”

Bill shook his head. “Nah, it’s okay. She’s been doing better lately, so hopefully she’ll be home soon.”

Finch nodded. “Good, good...”

Shit, what do you even say to that?

“Still,” Bill said, “I _am_ sorry I ran out on you earlier.”

“Seriously? Don’t even worry about it. That’s legit.”

There was quiet for a moment, and then Bill continued. “I’m glad you agreed to let me take you out again. Though admittedly walking around the city isn’t exactly ‘taking you out’...”

Finch chuckled. “I’m surprised you had any interest in seeing me again, after I practically threw a drink at you.”

Bill snorted. “I’m just sorry you spilled your cock.”

Finch burst into laughter, and Bill grinned. Okay, maybe he wasn’t such a stuck-up, rich, daddy’s boy, after all.

“So do you always put out that uh, vigorously, on a first date, or am I just lucky?” Bill teased.

“Well, usually I would get your clothes off _before_ I spilled my cock all over you, but...” Finch shrugged.

Now Bill burst into laughter, blushing, despite being the one to bring it up in the first place. “That usually works out better, doesn’t it?”

“Usually.”

“So, Finch.” Bill paused to take another sip of his coffee, smiling into his travel mug. “Who is Finch? Other than a guy who works at a sex shop and shoots things for fun?”

Finch chuckled, deciding he had nothing to lose from being brutally honest. “Don’t worry; I’m also trailer trash that didn’t finish high school and knows absolutely nothing, and I mean zero, about boating.”

Bill looked surprised. “I thought you said you liked motorboating?” Dawning realization and something that was either embarrassment or horror crossed his face. “Oh my god, am I an idiot? Was that supposed to be a joke about, like, boobs, and I totally missed it?”

“What? No!” Finch assured him quickly, laughing some more. “No, it’s just that you asked if I preferred sailing or motor boating, and I guessed.”

“Okay.” Bill laughed as well. “That, I can work with.”

“You been, uh... _boating_ a long time, then?” Finch asked, grinning.

Bill laughed again. “Pretty much my whole life, yeah.”

“So, what? You just get out on a lake and boat around? Do you fish? What do you do?”

“Mostly just boat around, yeah,” he snickered.

Finch nodded. “Sounds fun. I always wanted to try one of those giant, inflatable hot dogs that you pull behind a boat. My buddy Race asked for one for his birthday a while back, and we all chipped in and got one, but he doesn’t have a boat, so he just sits on it in his living room.”

Bill laughed. “Well hey, maybe some time I can take you out on the water and you can try it out.”

“Sounds romantic.”

“If we’re going for romance, I think I’d go for the sailboat, not a motorboat and giant hotdog.” He pressed his lips together for a second to keep from snickering before saying. “I’m not a straight girl, so that doesn’t do it for me.”

Finch snorted. “Man, for a guy in _loafers_ , you’ve got quite a dirty mind in there.” He batted at Bill’s head.

“You’re the one that works in a sex shop. I’m just trying to appeal to my audience, here!”

“Oh, you appeal to your audience. No need to worry about that.” He made a big to-do of looking him up and down, capping it off with a wink.

Bill blushed. “Good, it’s working.”

Finch snickered, then bumped Bill’s shoulder with his own. “Tell me something boring about you.”

“Something boring?” He frowned for a second, thinking. “Okay, promise you won’t laugh at me?”

“Do my best,” Finch promised.

“I hate crust on my bread.”

He pursed his lips thoughtfully. “Noted. Only the fluffy, middle stuff for Bill.”

Bill reached out to shove lightly at Finch’s shoulder. “Okay, your turn, something boring about you.”

“Alright, let’s see...” Finch thought for a moment. “My real name is Patrick.”

“Why do people call you Finch?”

“I used to sing a lot, when I was little. Like, my mom couldn’t shut me up.”

Bill smiled. “That’s really cute.”

“I think it was pretty annoying, actually, but thanks.”

“Do you still sing a lot?”

Finch cringed and made a sound akin to a creaking door. “Eeehhh, yes? I mean, just, at home and stuff.”

Bill grinned. “I’m not gonna be a dick and ask you to sing for me now, but I’m gonna remember that.”

“Hey,” Finch teased, “something for me to do while cutting the crusts off your sandwiches.” He had the sudden urge to hold his hand, put his arm around him, touch him somehow, but he worried that might be too much too fast.

“So, tell me something else,” Bill said. “I want to know more about you.”

Finch exhaled slowly, puffing his cheeks out a little. “Well, let’s see. I’m twenty-four. I’m not a total idiot, despite the whole ‘high-school dropout’ thing. I’ve lived in New York most of my life, but I was born in South Texas, and I’m technically Hispanic, despite being super white.”

Bill nodded. “Cool. Can I ask why you dropped out of school, or is that way too personal way too fast?”

“Nah.” Finch brushed his fingers through his hair again. “I just...couldn’t do it. I’m actually pretty good at math, and I remember stuff, but if you set me down at a desk and tell me to do it,” he shrugged, “I can’t.”

“Hmm,” Bill hummed in absent acknowledgement, and reached out to brush his fingers lightly over Finch’s hair.

Finch blinked a couple times, surprised.

After a second, Bill jerked his hand back with a quiet gasp. “Oh shit, I’m sorry, I didn’t— It’s almost five in the morning, I haven’t slept yet, and I just wanted to touch you.” He blushed bright red. “I mean, your hair looks soft, and you kept touching it, so I just—”

“It’s okay. You can touch it,” Finch said.

Bill shook his head quickly. “Nah, nah it’s fine, I don’t wanna push a boundary or anything.”

“It’s not a boundary,” Finch assured him. “Really, I don’t mind.”

After another second of hesitation, Bill reached out again and gently brushed his fingers through Finch’s hair. It was nice, not at all like that weird, ticklish feeling you get when a stranger touches you. They had stopped walking, though Finch hadn’t noticed when it happened.

“Well, I was right, it is soft,” Bill said quietly, before pulling his hand away again.

Finch mourned the loss of contact, even after that little. It was the first significant physical contact they’d had. “Thanks.”

“You’re welcome.”

The obvious thing to do then was keep walking, but neither of them moved. Finch didn’t want to move; he wanted to be touching him again.

“You really do have _beautiful_ eyes,” he said.

Bill bit his lip for a second, and smiled. “Thanks.”

“You’re welcome.”

And still they kept not walking, just looking at each other. Clearly, one of them needed to make a move, and clearly, they were both waiting on the other. Slowly, Finch raised his hand, slow enough that Bill could duck away if he wanted to, and placed it right where Bill’s shoulder met his neck. He felt Bill tense a little, but he certainly didn’t pull away, in fact, he shifted a bit closer.

Finch leaned in, leaning his forehead against Bill’s. “You don’t have to let me kiss you, just because I let you touch my hair, y’know.”

Bill tilted his face up towards his, laughing quietly. “Oh, is that not how this works?”

Finch slid his hand up and around to the back of Bill’s neck. “No.”

“What if I want you to kiss me?” Bill murmured.

“Then tell me. Do you?”

“Yeah, I do.”

“Well, thank god.” Finch closed the short distance between their lips.

Bill wrapped an arm around Finch’s waist as he kissed back, pulling him closer. Bill smelled nice, like expensive soap, and tasted like some sort of mocha bullshit coffee, and Finch was enjoying it way more than he should have been. Bill moved his free hand up and into Finch’s hair again and tilted his head a little to deepen the kiss. Finch responded eagerly, opening his mouth a little and swiping his tongue over Bill’s bottom lip. Bill exhaled, not quite a groan, and followed Finch’s cue, opening his mouth more as well so Finch could have his way. Finch slid his other hand around Bill’s waist and fisted it in the back of his jacket. He pulled him even closer. Bill hummed appreciatively, tightening his arm around Finch’s waist, pressing fully against him as his mouth worked against his.

Eventually, Finch had to pull back to breathe. He rested his forehead against Bill’s again. “Forgive me if this is too forward,” he said, as if they hadn’t just been making out on the sidewalk in front of rush hour traffic at five o’clock in the morning on a Tuesday, “but I would, like, _really_ like to take you home. With me.”

Bill laughed breathlessly. “I, uh, I dunno about that.”

Finch cringed only briefly. “Can’t blame a guy for tryin’.”

“It’s not you,” Bill said quickly, pulling back a bit so he could look at him properly. He was blushing again. “This is just...new for me?”

Now, Finch frowned a little. “‘This’ being...?”

“...Guys?”

His eyes widened. “ _Oh_.”

If it was possible, Bill blushed harder. “Sorry, I probably should’ve told you that earlier...”

“No, no.” Finch shook his head. “That’s your business. I’m just...surprised.” He paused. “...Never?”

Bill laughed, clearly embarrassed. “I’ve never even kissed a guy before.”

“Oh, shit...girls?”

He nodded. “Yeah. I’m not _into_ girls,” he clarified quickly, “but it took me a while to figure out that was, like, a thing.”

“Oh. Well...” Finch swiped his thumb over Bill’s jaw. “It’s an honor?”

Bill laughed lightly, and his eyes dropped briefly to Finch’s lips. “D’you, uh, wanna do it again?”

Finch nodded minutely, settled his hands on either side of Bill’s jaw, and leaned in to kiss him again. Bill responded eagerly, securing both of his arms around Finch’s waist—it was a wonder he hadn’t dropped his coffee yet. Beautiful, rich, _and_ talented. And he had a boat. Damn. Talk about a dream boy, who was actually way out of Finch’s league.

They broke apart to breathe, breaking contact, but not really pulling away. Bill chuckled quietly. “Yeah, that’s a lot better than kissing girls.”

“Glad to be of service,” Finch teased.

Bill laughed and kissed him again.


	4. Fight, Flight, Freeze...Fuck?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bill visits Finch at his home, things occur.

Bill glanced at his phone, triple checking the address as he pulled into the trailer park, driving slowly so he could look for the right number on the faded plastic siding of each almost identical trailer. Now that he was there—well, almost there—Bill was starting to question his agreement to go hang out at Finch’s place after class. Finch had Fridays off, so it wasn’t the middle of the night, but it was still going to the home of a guy he barely knew in a super sketchy neighborhood. Did a trailer park really even count as a neighborhood?

The fact that he was nervous made Bill feel super classist and shitty. It wasn’t like he had an issue with it being a lower income area, it was just that lower income areas usually have a higher rate of crime. Still, classist and shitty.

He found the right trailer and pulled into the little gravel parking space in front of it, parking next to the motorcycle that was presumably Finch’s. He checked the address on his phone one more time before getting out of the car, double checking that it was locked behind him, and headed up to the door. He knocked, surprised at how flimsy the door felt against his knuckles. It felt like a stiff wind probably could have knocked the place right down, and the whole thing was probably smaller than his living room at home. Geez, imagine  _ living _ in something like this...and there he went, being shitty again.

The lack of an answer to his knocking started making him nervous. The motorcycle in the driveway would have led him to believe that Finch was home. Was this the right trailer? Was Finch alright? Was this whole thing a setup to make sure someone found Finch’s body after— Bill shook his head. Why would he think that?

“Hey, Bill!” Finch finally called from somewhere to Bill’s right. Bill turned to see him jogging over. “Hey, sorry. I had to help my friend get home; he’s on crutches. I didn’t mean to leave you stranded.”

“Oh, shit, is he okay?” Bill asked, stepping back off the stairs to the door.

“Oh yeah, he’s fine,” Finch said dismissively. “He was born with some leg thing, been on crutches most of his life.”

“Oh, okay. I mean, that sucks, but better than some awful accident I guess?”

“Yeah, he’s got it pretty under control.” Finch walked up to the door and opened it. “Come on in.”

Bill stepped inside after him, looking around curiously. At first glance, the trailer was a bit of a pigsty, but at second glance, it actually wasn’t; it was just old and run-down. The warped, wood floor was faded, not dusty. The linoleum countertops were cracked, not dirty, and the dishes in the corner were clean, there just wasn’t a lot of cabinet space in which to put them. The lumpy couch had a stain here and a patch there. The rug was fraying at the edges.

“Do you want me to take my shoes off?” Bill asked.

Finch, who was already halfway into the living area with his shoes on, shrugged. “Up to you.” He walked into the small kitchen, towards the fridge. “Now, I figured you might get hungry on the long journey from Fancy Town to the slums, so I took the liberty of preparing you a trailer trash delicacy.” He opened the fridge and pulled out a sandwich wrapped in cling wrap. “Turkey on Wonder Bread with a Kraft single and Miracle Whip. With the crust cut off, of course.” He tossed it underhand to Bill. “Bon appe-titty.”

Bill caught it, laughing. “And he cooks, too. You are just all kinds of talented, aren’t you?”

“Well, I don’t mean to brag, but I can cook every microwave meal known to man.”

“I’m calling bullshit right there,” Bill said, crossing the living area to sit down on one of the stools at the bit of the counter that served as a table. “ _ Every _ microwave meal known to man? No way.”

“If it has microwave directions, I can cook it,” Finch insisted. “I am a microwave master chef.”

“What about things that  _ should _ be cooked in the oven, but  _ can _ be microwaved?”

“If you’re asking if I’ve ever dumped an entire bag of pizza rolls onto a plate and microwaved them, the answer is yes.”

Bill laughed, unwrapping his sandwich. It looked...incredibly unappetizing, but he wasn’t about to say that, so he took a bite. It tasted like being five years old. 

“So,” he asked, swallowing, “do your cooking skills extend beyond microwave and sandwiches, or are you a ‘stick to what you know’ kinda guy?”

“I make a mean egg noodle,” Finch said, making his way back into the living area. “So how’s your mom? She doin’ okay?”

Bill nodded, having taken another bite of his sandwich, and turned around on his stool so he was still facing Finch. “Yeah,” he said, once he’d swallowed. “She’s been in a bad spot for a while, but things are starting to look up.

“Good. I’m glad.” Finch sat on the back of the couch, though he was tall enough that he didn’t actually have to take his feet off the floor, and bounced one of his legs. “How old’s your sister?”

“She’s seven.”

“Oh, wow,  _ little _ little.”

Bill nodded, hoping that he was subtle in setting the sandwich down on it’s cling wrap on the counter, and slid off the stool, going over to lean against the back of the couch, next to Finch. “One of us was an accident, and Mom won’t tell me which.”

Finch snorted. “That means it was you.”

“But I’m their perfect boy!” Bill protested, grinning.

“You’re in a trailer with a man who sells dildos for a living.”

He burst into laughter. “Yeah, well, they don’t know about this, so I’m still perfect.”

“If you don’t mind me asking,” Finch turned a little more towards Bill, pulling his knee up onto the back of the couch and tapping on it with his fingers, “are you out? Like, do your parents know you’re into guys?”

Hoo boy. Bill shook his head. “Nope. Really, only a few of my friends know.”

“Dooo you mind if I ask why?”

“I guess I’m just, kinda scared?” he admitted. “I don’t want people to see me differently...”

“Nah, I get that,” Finch said. “I was just curious. Thanks for tellin’ me.”

“My folks are the ‘traditional values’ sort, so…” Bill shrugged. “They were  _ furious _ when I broke up with my girlfriend ‘for no good reason’. I couldn’t exactly tell them she realized and told my stupid ass I was gay.”

“You had to be told?” Finch snorted. Snipes and I figured it out from one look at your shoes.”

Bill laughed. “I figured everyone disliked touching their girlfriend and daydreamed about the pool boy! Just something you ‘grow up and get over’.” He paused, shifting a bit closer to Finch. “Guess not.”

Finch smirked. “The pool boy?”

Bill reached out to shove his shoulder. “My folks have a pool, shut up.”

“Oh my god, you were actually crushing on the  _ pool boy? _ That’s a real thing people do?”

“Shut up!” He laughed some more, scooting closer to shove Finch again.

“No, no, let me guess!” Finch insisted, trying to dodge his attacks. “He had some sort of exotic, like, Italian or Spanish name, deep brown eyes, and golden-tan, washboard abs.”

“ _ No _ ,” Bill retorted, swatting at him again. “His name was Sam, and he was a perfectly boring, although incredibly handsome, white guy.”

“You got a thing for boring, white guys?”

“I dunno if it’s a ‘thing’, he was just pretty.”

“ _ You’re _ pretty.”

Bill laughed lightly, and he could tell he was blushing again. “Yeah, sure.”

He didn’t know what it was about Finch that got him so flustered so easily. He was handsome, sure—gorgeous, really. But Bill had seen gorgeous boys before, so it couldn’t be that. Maybe it was that he was finally  _ admitting _ that boys were gorgeous? Whatever it was, he liked it. He liked Finch.

It was then he realized just how close they’d gotten. Finch had a small, crooked smile on his lips, and his eyes narrowed slightly. “Whatcha thinkin’ about?”

“I’m thinking about how I might have to kiss you again,” Bill admitted

Finch’s eyes flickered down to his lips, then back up to his eyes, then to his lips again. “Right. Fuck it.” He cradled Bill’s jaw in his hands and leaned in, pressing their lips together. Bill hummed against his mouth, and kissed back eagerly.

Finch hadn’t been Bill’s first kiss, but it definitely felt like the first kiss that mattered, and since the other night—morning?—Bill had hardly been able to think about anything else. Before, there had been a hint of doubt that he was actually gay. He’d never done anything with a man, after all. What if he got with a man, and it felt just like being with a woman—that is, like kissing a brick wall? But it didn’t. Good god, it didn’t. It felt like so much more, made him  _ want _ so much more.

He scooted closer so he could loop his arms around Finch’s waist, tilting his head to deepen the kiss, and Finch responded in kind, dragging his fingers up into Bill’s hair. Bill fisted his hands in the back of Finch’s shirt. It was a lot easier to hold him without also holding a stupid travel mug full of coffee, and the privacy of Finch’s home in the early evening was way more comfortable than a rapidly crowding sidewalk at five a.m. This was good.  _ This _ was what Bill had been missing in his relationship with Katherine.

Finch gently tugged on Bill’s hair, tipping his head back and kissing the corner of his mouth, his cheek, the edge of his jaw. “This okay?” he asked quietly.

“Yeah,” Bill breathed, enjoying the rather unfamiliar heat blooming in the base of his stomach.

Finch hummed as he pressed his lips to the side of Bill’s neck. “Guess I shouldn’t mark you up, huh?”

Bill laughed lightly, though the thought was certainly appealing. “Yeah, maybe not.”

Finch hummed again, then dropped his hands to Bill’s shoulders and slid them down his chest before wrapping them around his back, all while pressing featherlight kisses on his neck. Bill closed his eyes, twisting his fingers in the hem at the back of Finch’s shirt. He was being so gentle, but still each point of contact was electrifying.

Soon, Finch tilted his head back up, brushing his nose against Bill’s as he spoke. “Whaddaya think? Still gay?”

Bill giggled. “Definitely gay. Very, very gay.”

“Thank god.” Finch put his feet back on the floor and turned, trapping Bill against the back of the couch, and kissed him again.

Bill felt his stomach plunge delightfully. They talk about the startle responses being fight, flight, or freeze, but sometimes the answer is, in fact, fuck. He slung his arms up over Finch’s shoulders and kissed back.

Finch pulled up slightly on the hem of Bill’s shirt. “Okay?”

Bill could feel his cheeks heating up again—which was ridiculous—and he confirmed. “Okay,”

“Okay,” Finch repeated. He slid his hands up the back of Bill’s shirt and flattened them against his back.

Bill shivered at the feeling of Finch’s hands against his skin. He felt silly, being flustered, and he didn’t know what to do, so he leaned in to kiss him again. Finch made a noise that was almost a moan as he moved his hand up Bill’s spine, pulling his shirt with it.

Bill slid his hands down Finch’s torso to slip his fingers under the hem of his shirt. Taking his cue, he paused kissing him to ask. “Can I...?” Finch nodded, and Bill slid his hands back up, under his shirt now, to rest on Finch’s chest. It was simple, and stupid, but he’d never touched anyone like that before— _ especially _ not an upsettingly attractive guy—and it made his stomach feel all bubbly. Finch was in good shape, all long lines and lean muscle. It was borderline unfair.

Then, Finch reached down, wrapped his arms around Bill’s hips, and lifted him up onto the back of the couch, and that was  _ definitely _ unfair. It did a little to alleviate the slight awkwardness of their height difference, though, and Finch took full advantage of the new, better angle as he pressed his mouth to Bill’s again. Bill opened his mouth a little wider to run his tongue over Finch’s bottom lip, and Finch took the invitation for what it was and kissed him deeper.

When they paused for breath, Bill laughed softly. “How are you so good at that?”

Finch frowned slightly. “What? Kissing pretty boys? It’s not hard.”

Bill nearly said ‘yeah, but something is’, but decided to just kiss him again instead.

They went on as they had been for a moment before Finch shoved one of Bill’s shoulders, knocking him sideways over the back of the couch. He yelped as he landed on the cushions, and he looked up at Finch in bewildered surprise.

Finch smiled sheepishly, “Sorry,” and climbed over the back of the couch. He wrapped a hand around the back of Bill’s neck and pulled him up into another heated, open-mouthed kiss.

Bill put his hands on Finch’s shoulders, kissing back eagerly. He wasn’t sure if it was Finch specifically, or just that he was a boy, and Bill was actually attracted to boys, but something about it was intoxicating. It made his head swim and left him breathless in the best way.

Then, Finch worked his hands up under his shirt again, tracing his fingers over his sides. On his way back down towards Bill’s hips, he grabbed the hem of his shirt. “Can I just...take this offa you?”

Bill blushed, a little hesitant, and not really sure why. “Would you...mind doing yours first?”

Finch smirked, “Not at all,” and pulled his shirt over his head, tossing it to the floor next to the couch.

“Thanks, sorry, that was silly.”

“Nah.” Finch leaned down to kiss his cheek, slow and lingering. “Can leave yours on, if ya want.”

“Jesus Christ,” Bill chuckled, “you’re hot  _ and _ sweet? Is that allowed?”

To show Finch—and maybe himself—that he was okay with it, he went ahead and started to unbutton his shirt. Finch knocked his hands away, though, and began to do it himself, kissing the newly exposed skin of his chest as he went. Bill’s breath picked up. He was excited and a little scared, but willing himself to listen to the excited part.

Finch pulled back up to push Bill’s now-unbuttoned shirt over his shoulders and let out a low exhale. “Fuck, of course. Just makes sense you’d have a beautiful body to go with the face.”

Bill laughed, pulling his arms out of the sleeves. “Thanks, you’re not half bad yourself.”

“Fuck,” Finch repeated. He wrapped his arms around Bill’s middle and pulled him into what was basically a hug, pressing their bodies together, skin to skin. He mouthed at Bill’s shoulder and the base of his neck.

Bill gasped quietly. Suddenly, he didn’t know what to do with his hands. What had he done with his hands before? He felt like he was short circuiting.

“You good?” Finch asked quietly.

“Yeah,” Bill confirmed quickly, deciding to settle his hands on Finch’s sides, just above his hips.

Finch pressed forward, tipping Bill back against the soft arm of the couch.

Bill tightened his grip on Finch, partially to keep Finch close—not that there seemed to be any trouble with that—but also in an attempt to ground himself a bit. Of course, holding him closer was hardly doing much to help, if anything it just made Bill’s head swim more, especially with the way Finch’s mouth worked against the side of his neck, soft and firm, like he was trying to accomplish something. If that something was to turn Bill into a complete mess, it was working.

Of course, that led him to think about what Finch was  _ actually _ trying to accomplish. It was pretty clear where this was headed—hell, the other night (morning?) Finch had flat out said he wanted to take Bill home with him, and now, that’s exactly where they were.

Finch pulled his head up and kissed Bill on the lips again. “Still okay?”

“Uh, yeah,” Bill replied quickly, realizing he’d gone pretty rigid and telling himself to relax. It was fine. This was fine, right? This was a thing people did—hooking up with guys they barely knew. This was a perfectly respectable—okay, maybe that’s not the right word—perfectly  _ normal _ way to lose your virginity. To a man you didn’t know. On his couch, in a trailer park.

A  _ gorgeous _ man, Bill reminded himself, a  _ nice _ man—at least, he seemed nice. Bill didn’t really know. Bill barely knew anything about him.

Suddenly, Finch stilled and pushed himself up so he could meet Bill’s eyes. He paused for a moment, just looking at him. “Do you know how to use a slingshot?”

Bill blinked, and it took a second for his mind to properly kick into gear, and catch up. “ _ What? _ ”

“Do you know how to use a slingshot?”

He laughed, helplessly confused. “No?”

“Would you like to?”

* * *

Anita Cortes was, objectively, not the  _ best _ mom. Finch had spent a lot of his childhood fending for himself, which was not ideal. That said, she wasn’t the  _ worst _ mom, either. She taught him a number of valuable life skills, including, but not limited to, the harmless ‘white lie’. For example:

“Good shot,” Finch said as Bill sent another rock sailing into the nearby woods. “You’re getting there.”

Bill scoffed. “Yeah, if ‘there’ is nowhere near the target, I’m definitely getting there.”

“Well, a beer bottle’s not a very forgiving target. Here, let me show you again.” Finch took the slingshot from Bill, partially to demonstrate his technique again, partially because watching Bill try to do it was painful, but mostly because he wanted to show off a little. “You wanna get it at eye level, like this. Sometimes, it helps if you close one eye. Then, you pull straight back, and—” He let the rock fly, and the bottle shattered on contact.

Bill nodded with an appraising smirk. “I gotcha. Closing one eye, that’ll definitely help my aim.”

“C’mon. Give it another shot.” Finch winked.

Bill snorted, holding his hand out for the slingshot. “Yeah, sure.”

Finch honestly didn’t mind that the afternoon had headed in a much more G-rated direction that it initially seemed it would. Bill had said he was okay, but not only could Finch tell a white lie; he could also spot one from a mile down the road. So, slingshotting it was.

“Don’t pull down,” he advised as Bill set up for another shot, reaching out to push Bill’s back hand into line with his front. “That’ll just angle your shot upwards. Everything’s gotta be straight.” He smirked. “And I don’t say that about much.”

Bill chuckled, shooting Finch a brief smile before turning his gaze back to the next bottle on the bench. He squeezed one eye shut, lining up his shot, and let fly.

“See?” Finch gestured at the row of bottles, all of which were very much still standing. “That was...closer.”

Bill snorted and laughed. “Guess I’m a natural.”

“Lemme help,” Finch suggested. He handed Bill another rock and came around behind him as he reloaded the slingshot. “So,” he reached around and took Bill’s hands, making sure to line up their arms so they were touching as much as possible, “pull back.” He guided Bill’s hands. “Aim...and fire.”

With Finch’s guidance, Bill actually managed to hit a bottle.

Finch grinned. “See? All in the technique.”

Bill smirked. “Might have something to do with all your practice and whatnot, but sure, technique.”

“What are you talking about?” Finch bumped him with his shoulder. “That was all you, Billy.”

He cringed. “Oh ew, don’t call me ‘Billy’, my mom calls me ‘Billy’.”

“‘Bill’ is such old man name, though,” Finch teased, bopping his shoulder. “You’re too cute to be a ‘Bill’.”

Bill rolled his eyes. “Well I’m stuck with it. Can’t call me ‘Will’, that’s my dad.”

“Oh, is Bill short for William? I figured it was short for Billfold.”

He snorted and laughed. “Billbus, actually.”

“Bilbo Baggins. And yes, that’s a joke about your height.”

Bill gasped, still smiling. “I’m not  _ that _ short!”

“You’re super short.” Finch ruffled his hair, then gestured to the slingshot. “You wanna try again?”

“Am not,” Bill grumbled, grabbing a rock and raising the slingshot to aim, he held it for a moment, then paused. “Maybe you could show me your technique, again?”

Finch grinned. “Yeah, alright.” He wrapped his arms around Bill again. He was quickly finding him to be very holdable—just the right size, like a sexy little teddy bear.

Bill settled in his arms, much like Rum Tum Tugger using Plato as an old-Hollywood leaning board. With Finch’s help aiming, the shot was lined up much better, and the rock went sailing to hit the side of the bottle, knocking it over, so it rolled off the bench.

“Like a charm,” Finch said, letting his arms come to rest around Bill’s waist.

“Well, you certainly are charming,” Bill teased.

Finch snickered. “‘Charming’. That’s a new one.” He reluctantly let go of Bill and took a step back. “It’s gettin’ pretty late. You need to be home by any particular time?”

Bill pulled out his phone, presumably checking the time, and shrugged. “If you’re trying to politely kick me out, I can...?” He pointed over his shoulder with his thumb, towards his car.

“Not at all,” Finch assured him. “I just wanna know if I’m ordering Chinese for one or two.”

“I’m a fan of beef lo mein.”

He smiled, honestly glad Bill wanted to stay a little longer. “Beef lo mein it is, then.”


End file.
